Depressed, crazy, violent, angry, suicidal. Those are the adjectives most people would use to describe me. Ironically, the one that upsets me is violent. I’m not a violent person.

Am I depressed? Yes. Life’s a bitch, and she’s taken me for a fucking ride.

Crazy? I wouldn’t say so, although I can see why people would describe me as such.

Angry? Fuck yeah. I’ve got some twisted stories to explain my anger.

Suicidal? Well, maybe this one time. And that one time is the reason I’m here, telling you my story, from room 113 of the Chasing Freedom Recovery Center. Isn’t the name fucking peachy? Sit tight folks, you’re in for a dark ride.

Tyler

I don’t have a problem. Drinking is something I do to relax after a long day of work, or a long day on stage. I’m not an alcoholic. I know what alcoholics are like, and that’s not me. (Not yet.)

Regardless, they send me to Chasing Freedom. (Again). They’re determined to heal something that isn’t broken. (Liar.) And I’m stuck with Red, hearing her lose her shit and tell me off in the process. However, one look into her eyes shows me her demons. Some I am familiar with, others I can’t fathom. I know darkness, but she’s pitch black, and I want to hold the torch and lead her out.

Excerpt

I hear the heavy movement of boots, and I shudder at the thought of that darkness reentering my life. He slumps on the chair next to me. God, this can’t be happening again. I hate being here in this fucking prison, but it’s the only place I know evil can’t get to me. Now, there is the permanent memory of it sitting next to me.

“So, what poison got you locked up in here?”

I look at him blankly. “I don’t do drugs.”

“Then why the fuck are you here?” He spits at me, and I get a whiff of alcohol laced with mint on his breath.

I shrug, hoping he goes away. Hoping he takes the darkness back where it came from.

“What? You don’t talk?”

“I’m talking.” Leave me alone.

He looks over at my canvas. “That’s some warped shit.”

“Life is warped.” If he only knew how fucked up life is.

He’s an asshole brat.

“Only if you want it to be. So, you don’t have anything to share. Don’t lie. You’re in here for a reason. You look like you know some good stuff. I won’t tell anyone,” he smiles, feigning his good intentions.

“Fuck off,” I say looking at him dead in the eyes. I will not go through this again.

I catch a glimpse of his eyes, it’s hard to tell under the shadow of his cap if they’re green or hazel, but they look sad and angry. I can’t see the rest of him, besides a light beard that covers his face.

Nope, he doesn’t look like the devil, but I see the darkness that surrounds him. I try to ignore him and go back to the mindless painting I’m doing. I have no idea what is on the canvas, so I look up to see what’s so scary about it.

Shit. I never focus on what I’m painting with the brush; I move it along so no one bothers me as I get lost in my mind.

It’s him. He’s staring back at me, fury and hatred painted in his eyes, horns adorning the crown of his head and a malevolent smile plastered on his shattered face.

I drop the paintbrush quickly and stare in disbelief. How many times have I painted this? What the fuck has come out of me through that brush when I wasn’t paying attention? I stand up and throw it away. My scars begin to itch. I need something. I need a way to escape this. It’s too much for me to handle. I pierce my nails into my scars. The skin there is thinner, more breakable, fragile like me. Maybe I can gush them open and let myself bleed out of this misery.

“Mikayla, we’re not done yet. You know you can’t throw away your art. It’s part of therapy.” Here we go again with the same damn speech that painting will help me understand the reasons why I feel the way I do.

“You can take your art and shove it up your ass.” I storm out of the art room, desperately wanting to escape my own mind and memories. I thought life as an eighteen-year-old was supposed to be good. Time to be living your life, not escaping demons and living in a judgmental purgatory with other lost souls.

Author Bio

Fabiola Francisco is a contemporary romance author from South Florida. Writing as been a part of her life since she was a teenager. Even at that age, she dreamed of happy endings with emotional twists. Her novels include Perfectly Imperfect, The Restoring Series, Sweet on You Duet, and Red Lights, Black Hearts.

Her passion for books and writing has inspired her to write her own stories. She writes novels readers could relate to and grow with. She’s currently working on writing more stories that connect with readers on a deeper.

Fabiola also loves expressing herself through art and spending time in nature. In her spare time, she loves to cuddle with a good book and a glass of wine.

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